Forever
by Sir Serendipity
Summary: Sequel to "Welcome to the World." 1921: Even as America emerges as a world power, he still struggles to gain the respect of his onetime enemy, now tentative ally. And are England's "feelings" for him legitimate or just more mind games? Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Important! Please Read!**

**This is a sequel to "Welcome to the World." I _highly_ recommend you read that first, because otherwise several things in here won't make much sense.**

To those of you who have read WTTW: welcome back! This is that USUK (not necessarily in that order) sequel I mentioned in the last chapter. It's a direct continuation of the events of WTTW, but I made it into a new story because a) it's a completely different genre, b) WTTW ended so nicely, and c) "Forever" decided that it wanted to be multi-chaptered instead of the tame little alternate ending I had originally planned.

Warnings: I don't think it's quite an M, but it's a considerably more mature T than WTTW was, mostly because I was just a tad gory in my depiction of World War I. (Is it just me, or do I geek out over guns in just about every chapter of, like, everything? 0_o) Also, here there be gayness, but you were expecting that, amirite? :P

This is my first attempt at writing for a pairing and I don't think I'm doing too well so far, but please enjoy anyway! Reviews are welcome and appreciated. ^^

* * *

_April 1921_

It's been a long time since I've stood in front of this massive oak door. Despite all of the Empire's wealth and prosperity, a thin border of inevitable rust tarnishes the tawny mane of the lion's head door knocker and I note the few trailing cobwebs in the corners of the doorframe. A wild wall of English ivy clings to the ancient red bricks of the house and the window panes are warped with ripples and rivulets of glass from the days before mass production. Even after all these years, England is the same. I know he likes his house this way- a little aged, a little rustic. He's the kind of person who would use ragdolls as legit house decorations and have a "Bless This Home" welcome mat if he didn't know the rest of the world would never let him live it down.

He invited me over for what he'd carefully termed a delayed debriefing, which it can't possibly be. For one thing, the war's been over for a while now, and for another, if it were really military-related he would have told me to go to a military base, not his cottage in the countryside. _The soggy countryside,_ I add to myself as my muddy, squelching shoes ooze water onto the porch. I sigh and rap a few times on the door, shouting England's name at it for good measure. There's some scuffling from inside, then a click, and the door swings open.

"Oh! America! You're… early?" He fumbles with something in his waistcoat pocket for a moment, eventually drawing out a pocket watch and looking from it to me incredulously.

"Yeah, dude! Debriefing, right? Military stuff. Important."

His lip curls as he slips his watch back into his pocket. "Couldn't you at least use _one_ verb…?"

"You gonna invite me in or stand here and correct my grammar all day?" Without waiting for an answer, I considerately slip off my muddy shoes and step past him into the house.

I scan the place just in case, but I already know what I'll find: still no electricity. This house is the one that England uses to express his hatred of change: everything, down to the pictures on the mantelpiece and the china in the Welsh dresser, is the same as the last time I've been here.

_Wait… not everything…_

I meander into his living room as he closes the front door behind me. He asks if I'd like coffee and I mumble out a sound of affirmation with my attention fixed on the new addition to the mantelpiece. It's a photograph of a day not so long ago—over two years already, is it?—when England and I returned to Britain from the trenches, shortly before I flew back home. We're dirty, bloody, skeletal, and exhausted, but we're grinning like a couple of kids.

Up until this point I've been unable to remember much of the war. Consulting my boss about it, he said that the horrors I witnessed were too terrible to have weighing on my mind and my subconscious erased my memories as a means of self-defense. Now, though, a torrent of events comes rushing back to me, and I squeeze my eyes shut from the sudden onslaught.

_Feeling the mud sucking at my legs and torso, the smoke stinging my eyes, the roaring rattle of the M1917 Browning in my hands. Watching waves of my troops fall to machine gun fire, or zeppelin bombs, or mustard gas, or artillery shells— sprawled out, the life being leeched from them by the cold merciless mud. Holding a pair of bloody pliers in one hand and propping the other against England's bare chest, not so much to steady myself but to hold him down as I dug for the bullet buried in his flesh and, for the first time in my life, I heard him scream in agony. Sitting on an upturned crate in the bunker, feeling more than hearing the dull thud of bombs exploding in the distance as I made a pot of weak tea for England because his own rations weren't sufficient to satisfy his addiction. Holding him close and listening to our combined heartbeats in those moments when we both needed to be reassured that there was at least one other person alive in this world of death. Finally receiving the letter from the home front that a ceasefire had been arranged and looking over at England in time to see his thin, pale face break into a smile for the first time in months. Relishing that first blissfully quiet night, with no alarms, no gunfire and no exploding shells. Climbing up to the top of the bunk bed I shared with England knowing that I was leaving this godforsaken wasteland tomorrow. Hearing that whispered "America, are you awake?" just as I was drifting off to sleep. Opening my eyes to see England standing on the bottom bunk and leaning his elbows on my mattress as he beckoned me to come closer. Tasting sweat, blood and gunpowder as England pressed his lips against mine—  
_

My eyes fly open. No. That hadn't _actually_ happened, had it? That brief, chaste kiss in the dim light of a sputtering oil lamp that last night in the bunker had been a dream, right?

The clink of dishes in the kitchen alerts me to England's presence, and once again I find myself wondering why he invited me here.

"America?" he says, coming up alongside me with a steaming cup of coffee. The words _Are you awake? _echo in my ears, but instead he asks, "Is there a problem?"

"N-no," I reply shakily, gratefully accepting the coffee.

England eyes my face with concern. "You look… unnerved."

I shake my head dismissively. "It's nothing; I'm just a little tired. Jetlag, I guess."

"Well, if you're quite sure. Please, sit down."

I fold myself into a creaking leather armchair. England remains standing, thoughtfully sipping at a cup of tea he produced seemingly from nowhere.

"America, I—" He cuts himself off, biting on his lower lip.

_"You what?" I lean forward and smile reassuringly. I want to take his hand, but I don't know how the various military and state officials watching us from a distance would interpret that. His eyes meet mine briefly before returning to stare at my feet on the asphalt runway._

_"I just wanted to say thank you. For joining the war, that is. Don't get me wrong, you were infuriating as always, b-but I... I'm not sure if I could've done it without you." His breath catches and he looks up at me again, a faint blush tinting his light complexion, before leaning up on his toes and kissing me quickly on the cheek. I feel my face heat up, and now it's his turn to smile reassuringly, if a little ironically. "For once, I'm glad I'm European and can get away with that. Goodbye, America." He takes a step back and bows, then turns and walks away. Only when the plane bound for the States is taxiing down the runway does he turn around again. Among the hundreds of assorted officials who salute the United States of America as a war hero, England alone stands there waving to an old friend.  
_

"I suppose what I want to say," England continues, jolting me out of the past, "is that I don't want you to take what happened during the war too seriously. That is, what happened… between us. There were extenuating circumstances and I don't think we were quite in our right minds. We—"

"That last night," I say, my voice coming out rather more hoarse than I was expecting. "That… was real?"

England takes a deep breath and, looking pointedly at the wall, nods. "I…"—he says the next word as if it pains him to pronounce it—"_apologize_ for my overly hasty actions. I wasn't thinking clearly."

_No, _I think—although really it's more like a prayer. _Don't apologize. Don't explain it away, damn you! _I grit my teeth, wanting to punch him for the measured and rehearsed way in which he's clearly lying through his teeth. He's forgetting how well I know him again. When he speaks slowly and calmly you can't trust a word. When he gets angry and flustered,_ then_ some of the truth is revealed.

"Tell me why you did it."

Finally he looks at me, shocked and disbelieving. _Good, there's some emotion_. "I just said that I don't know, didn't I?"

"You said that you weren't thinking clearly. You didn't say _what_ you were thinking."

"Isn't it obvious?" He's pacing the room now, his hands clenching and unclenching. "I expect I was thinking that you weren't half bad-looking and I'd been at war for an awfully long time—"

"That wasn't a come-to-bed-with-me kiss, England." That much I'm sure of. I have the image solidly cemented in my head now of England leaning on his folded arms to stabilize himself, backlit by the lamp somewhere below him on the floor next to the bunk, smiling shyly and looking gentle and honest and _real_ for the first time since before the Revolution.

"Alright, you want the truth?" He stops pacing abruptly and shoots me a defiant, challenging glare. "You want to know the real motive behind my actions?"

I rise to my feet, just to remind him that he wasn't dealing with a colony anymore. "Yeah."

His eyes narrow, but I can still see the tears shining in them. Maybe this'll actually be the truth then. "You're quickly becoming a major world power, and all things considered there wasn't much of a chance of you being anything but an enemy in the future. We knew the Great War was coming, and We couldn't afford to have any more nations against Us. We did it to secure an alliance for the sake of the Empire."

Sadly enough… I think that _is_ the truth.

I fall back into the chair behind me. I don't care about appearing imposing anymore; no matter how tall I am he'll always look down on me. _Of course. How could I have been so stupid as to think…?_

_I should've known he was just manipulating me again._

The image of that innocent smile in the lamplight disappears from my mind immediately, replaced by another memory: a tall mast, black against the Boston sky, crowned by a Union Jack waving majestically in the salty breeze.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **I actually had this done on Sunday, but I haven't had access to a computer, and once I did get my hands on one I ended up doing hours of research on where the heck this should take place. I ended up settling on the Lake District because it's so bloody beautiful and fairly secluded (comparatively speaking), and most of the distances and calculations and whatnot that come in subsequent chapters are correct_ish_, but please don't go and measure them all or something... I ended up so sick of looking up topographical maps and railway maps and road conditions and average car speeds in the 1920s that I eventually threw in a few educated guesstimations. So just... please don't question them; I realise they may be slightly squiffy XP

Anyhoo, thanks so much for the reviews and faves! They really do motivate me. And SamuraiSal1, fear not, I'm a sucker for happy endings ^^

I feel like this chapter is a litte... weird...? But I have a plan now, so the next one should be better.

* * *

I sigh, closing my eyes because I don't know where to look. I'm such a fool, letting a simple kiss get me tied into knots. Of _course _there was a reason behind it; this is the British Empire we're talking about. But God, it would be nice to be treated like a human being for once and not a mere pawn.

"Okay," I say resignedly, running a hand through my hair. If he wants me to play along, fine then, I'll play along—but not as a pawn. I'll be my own king, thank you very much. "Whatever. You're sick, dude, but whatever. Is that all you wanted to tell me?"

England's mouth drops open and he stutters for a moment. "Well—yes."

"Cool. I'll be going then." I heave myself to my feet and head for the door.

"Y-you can't just walk away! You can't just _leave_!"

_I'm sorry, England, am I upsetting your precious little plan to break me? _I look over my shoulder, already opening the front door. "Watch me."

"The next bus to Windermere doesn't come until tomorrow morning!"

...Oh.

I keep my badass expression plastered on my face and pretend like I knew that all along. "Looks like I'll be getting some exercise. You always say I need it."

England's expression is gradually changing from shocked and scandalized to an all-too-familiar "What the hell are you thinking, America?" face. "It's over twenty-five miles."

"No problem for a hero like me."

He says nothing but his expression shifts again, this time to "Oh Lord, what kind of child did I raise?"

I step outside and call back to him, "Let me know when I can finally trust you," then slam the door.

I sigh again into the damp, chilly air. I have no intention of walking twenty-plus miles, love handles or no love handles. I march briskly down the dirt road with enough stoic determination to strike fear into his bones if he's watching me from a window; I turn the first bend; I find a choice rock that's not too wet; and I sit down to wait for some kind of vehicle to pass by so I can hitchhike.

And then, of course, it begins to rain.

_Oh, English weather; you never fail me, do you?_ I rest my elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist as I feel my clothes become heavier with water. _Unlike certain others I could mention._

I wonder why I'm here, in Britain, again. When I broke away, didn't I want to be free? Didn't I want to be seen as an equal in the War of 1812? Didn't I agree to fight in the Great War alongside my longtime foe because I wanted the world to see me as a powerful and independent nation?

So why am I back here again, feeling like I'm still being used?

_Even though it's technically daytime, the thick cloud cover and the trench walls block out the sun and create the illusion of night. England and I have a damp and crumpled map out and we're running over the attack plan one last time as the rain seeps into our clothes and slithers coldly down our backs and drips off the ends of our hair._

_"I'm leading the dangerous heroic charge into No Man's Land, yeah?" I'm scared shitless, really, but I'm doing my best to put on a brave front._

_England hesitates. "Well, yes and no. You are in fact leading the charge, but hopefully it isn't _too _risky. If our reports are correct there's a convenient hole in the German fortifications right here"—he points to the map—"and since we have French troops backing you up—"_

_"Oh, that's reassuring," I interrupt, cracking a grin. One side of England's mouth curves into a smile of sorts._

_"Never fear, the frog is here. Being the unstoppable military force that he is, we'll probably have no need of them, but I may as well mention that several hundred British reinforcements should be here within the hour."_

_"So you'll have my back?"_

_He looks up at me, the smile spreading to the other side of his mouth, and nods once, firmly. "Yes, I'll have your back."_

_And shortly after that I run headlong across a muddy minefield littered with barbed wire and partially decomposed bodies, completely fearless._

Now some of the water running down my face isn't rain. I just want to be rid of this cycle of trusting and having my trust betrayed again and again. I should've learned long ago that those eyes the color of poison meant danger, but then England would smile in that beautiful way of his and I'd make the same mistakes all over again in spite of myself.

Wait. Did I just call him _beautiful_?

I drop my head and batter away at it with both fists, as if I could somehow beat the thoughts out of my mind or at least kill them where they were. It's disgusting to think of my big brother as beautiful, even though his hair shines like gold in the scattered rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds and floats like spider's silk in the wind coming off the Atlantic; even though his eyes are as deeply verdant as the Kent forests; even though he smells like an earthy blend of tea and tobacco and bluebell woods after a gentle rain; even though when he raises his voice I can hear the crashing of the waves against the white cliffs of Dover; even though that smile of his makes my heart leap into my throat and when his lips touched mine I swear to high heaven the world stopped turning.

England shouldn't be beautiful to me.

Except he damn well is.

I take off my glasses and violently scrub the rain off them with my equally wet shirt, only succeeding in smearing the water all over them. Why, _why _can he not see me as an equal? Is there nothing I can do to become anything more than a device to him? And most importantly- or so it seems to me at the moment—what changed to make me suddenly feel so differently about him?

A car honks from the road and I jump out of my skin, dropping my glasses in the mud. I hurriedly feel around for them and slap them back on my face only to find that I can see nothing but mud, bits of grass, and a rather startled black beetle. In frustration I whip them off again, stand up, and tramp over to the red blur that I can only assume is the car that caused all these complications. The passenger door opens as I reach it and I realize that the driver's offering me a ride. I clamber in, dripping rain and mud all over his leather seats, and slam the door behind me.

"Thanks, man," I say, flicking the beetle off my glasses and doing my best to mop off the worst of the mud. Warm calloused hands pry them from me. A handkerchief is procured. Texas is handed back to me after a few moments in a significantly cleaner condition. And I finally notice that the car smells of tea and tobacco and bluebell woods.

"Oh," I say.

"Another dazzlingly brilliant remark from the United States of America," says England.

"Shut up," I counter, and place Texas back on my face.

Surprisingly, England doesn't look furious, condescending, or even smug. He just looks rather weary and long-suffering, like he's tired of having to take care of a brat like me.

"Windermere is farther away than I'm willing to drive at this time of evening, so I'll take you as far as the nearest sign of civilization. You might be able to find a friendly farmer who'll be willing to take you to town in the back of his cart the next time he gets around to going."

"...And how long might that take?"

"No more than three weeks, I'm sure."

Three weeks in an English village in the middle of nowhere? No thanks. Already I know my only viable option, but I ask anyway just to give him the satisfaction of saying it. "Or?"

"Or there's that bus tomorrow morning."

"Fine." I let him win, but I prop my muddy shoes up on his nice clean dashboard just so he knows I'm not beaten yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **Ngh, this chapter is so boring, I'm sorry guys ;_; As usual I'm totally screwing my original plan, so now I'm all confused and disorganised. _But_, I know the ending and I think it shall be glorious. I just have to figure out how the heck I'm going to get there. ^^" Just so that you get an idea of where this is going, I currently believe that the fifth chapter will be the last one, since apparently I think in five chapters. If I get inspired, though, I may continue into a later historical event. Cold War, maybe? *shroog*

At the risk of being redundant, thaaaaank yooooou for the faves and reviews and whatnot! I'm sorry that I have nothing better to offer you nice people than America's stream of consciousness. *headdesk*

For once, I actually wish France were here.

I stare at the tiles of England's bathroom wall, relishing not only the feeling of mud being washed off my body and cold being drawn out of it by the constant stream of water— thankfully England had allowed a modern shower to infiltrate the antiquity of his isolated cottage— but the chance to do nothing for a while and think on the current situation. Not that I really know what to think of it. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to isolate what it is that's wreaking havoc on my mind. After pushing aside my instinctive denial, that's easy enough. Whether I like it or not, I know what's there. The next step is to do something about it: namely, make it stop.

Easier said than done, when I'm completely unacquainted with the nature of the problem I'm facing. I want to ask France about it, because he's the one who would probably know the most, but on the other hand he certainly wouldn't have any advice for making it go away. Besides, I need to deal with this now, by myself. Something is clearly wrong with me and I've already ignored it for far too long.

I reach back in my mind for those sepia-hued memories from my childhood— the ones I had tried and failed to forget time and time again; the ones I had attempted to leave in my storage room countless times but had always followed me out; the ones that now gather dust in the musty corners of my consciousness and stubbornly refuse to leave me alone.

_I'm about thirteen or so, sitting on the porch steps and trying to figure out the fife England gave me when he arrived the day before. England himself sits in a chair close by and writes a letter to someone-or-other, using a book to support the paper, with the ink pot between his knees. It's a warm, sticky day in late summer, the kind of day that thwarts any attempts made at productivity and sends the entire population out onto the porch with sleeves rolled up, cravats undone, hose discarded, and a cooling drink in hand. Sure enough, after a short while England sighs and gives up on his letter, leaving his materials in a small pile by the door and joining me on the steps._

_He tells me that there's something he wants to inform me of while he's here, something about growing up. I've always been keen on the idea of growing up so I listen intently, only to be increasingly confused by what he proceeds to say. He says that at this point I've probably been seeing girls differently: maybe feeling more affectionate toward them, maybe thinking they're pretty, maybe wanting to touch them. He assures me that it's normal but I should wait a few years before acting on my feelings. He explains- briefly, euphemistically, matter-of-factly, and facing away from me- how the process works. When he's done he asks if I have any questions, still not meeting my eyes._

_I confess that I have no idea what he's talking about and that girls are still cootie-infested freaks to me. He smiles and tells me to wait a few years; it'll happen eventually. I innocently inquire as to when this mysterious change happened to him. England clears his throat and furrows his eyebrows as he contemplates how to answer, finally settling on saying simply that it was different for him. I look down at the fife in my hands and mumble that I think it's different for me too, but he shakes his head and drapes one arm across my shoulders, reassuring me that it'll happen to me in time._

It never did.

Somehow I'd managed to ignore my abnormal lack of interest in girls; I'm not sure how. Perhaps I hadn't acknowledged the existence of an alternative. Perhaps I'd dismissed the rumours about what England did with Spain and France and China as just more disgusting things that empires could get away with. Perhaps those words were still silently echoing in my head: "It'll happen in time." But I'm nineteen now, and although girls don't have cooties anymore, I've never really felt any urges toward them. I've also never cared; countries have plenty of things to do without getting involved in relationships. Yes, that's right. It doesn't matter anyway because it's not like I need romance or anything. Nope.

Certainly not.

Damn it all, that's a lie and I know it is. There _is _a need there, but for the wrong kind of person, and it isn't going away unless I tell England about it. But I have no idea how he would react, or how I would react to his reaction, or what would happen as a result of telling him. And thus my thoughts come full circle: I have no idea what I'm doing.

My back is beginning to go numb from the incessant barrage of water and I turn around, letting it attack my face next.

I never imagined that being attracted to another man would feel like this. Back home, it's the kind of thing that happens every so often but no one wants to admit it, a hush-hush topic that's ignored in hopes that it'll go away on its own. Even then, the illicit relationships in question tend to be between an older man and an adolescent, and all the ones I've heard of come in the form of sex scandals discussed in loud whispers by gossipy ladies at tea parties. They always involve someone being accosted, someone being seduced, or someone being raped. They never involve someone's ally leaning over his bunk, whispering "America, are you awake?" and then giving him a gentle kiss that tastes of tea and war.

I sigh and lean against the wall. It doesn't matter anyway; everything was a ploy to begin with. I can pine for him all I like, but that won't change the fact that he's still toying with me and using me to his own advantage.

Wait...

My eyes fly open and my face stretches into an uncontrollable grin as I shut off the water, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel. I feel like skipping down the street naked, Archimedes-style, shouting what I'd just figured out to the world. But no, I'll bide my time. This is my chance to use him like he's always used me, and I intend to make the most of it.

I throw some clothes on and set off to find England.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** Due to bad planning on my part this chapter is a little... thrown-together. I got so stuck on it, in fact, that I skipped it entirely for a while and wrote the next two chapters instead, so the updates will be coming thick and fast! :'D I shall space them out a wee bit though in order to take full advantage of the recently updates stories list. -evil snicker-

Thank you as always for the feedback, but this time we have a particularly enormous thank-you with ice cream and balloons and buckets full of love for anon, who informed me of someone plagiarising WTTW. I'm sorting out the situation as we speak C: Thank you soooo much for telling me! My appreciation knows no bounds.

So there's this chapter, a playing-catch-up-with-history chapter, the resolution, and then that's it! But stay tuned, folks, I fully intend to write more of this kind of stuff.

* * *

"What is it _now_, America?"

England sighs and looks up, even more pissy than usual. As he glares at me he subtly brings his knee up a little as if he were adjusting his recumbent position on the sofa, but if I know him he's trying to hide the cover of his book. Ever since I caught him with his nose in _120 Days of Sodom_ he's been super protective of his reading material.

"Oh, well, I was just going to ask if you wanted to show me around your _charming_ countryside now that the rain's stopped, but if you'd rather get off to whatever sick porn you're reading, that's fine too."

England's eyebrows furrow. "When I do read somewhat… _objectionable_ material, which is rarely, I assure you it is entirely for its literary merit."

"Sure, sure. So, you coming or not?"

He sighs again and glances out the window, chewing on his lip, then tosses his book onto the nearest end table and stands up. "Fine."

We set off on a wet, winding trail that loops through the forests and across the hills like it had been made by a rhino on crack. England is sullenly silent for the first mile or so, which I'm grateful for, since I'm trying to get up the courage to do what I know needs to be done to break the ice again. Finally, while we're in the midst of a clump of dripping trees with pale, watery sunlight filtering through the leaves, I take a deep breath and spit it out, making sure to keep ahead of him as we walk so I won't have to look at him.

"I'm sorry for overreacting. I mean, I should've known." I laugh breathlessly at myself. "Because, like, I actually thought you had some kind of personal reason for doing, you know, _that._ Pretty stupid, right? I totally misjudged your character, and for that I'm sorry."

There's nothing but silence from behind me for a few minutes as we trudge onwards.

"I, ah…" England says at long last. "I… It was encouraged by my government, yes, but… I don't want you to think that I don't… I mean…" The steady squelching from behind me ceases, and I stop walking and turn around to see England with his hand over his face, struggling with words. I give him a moment, and sure enough he continues presently. "Please don't think that I hate you. We're allies now, and, well…" He glances up at me but quickly looks away again, staring off at nothing in particular. "I've been angry at you, certainly, a thousand times, but no matter how hard I tried I could never bring myself to really hate you."

I open my mouth to say "I know," and it takes all my willpower to let the words die unspoken. But here I am, alone with England in the middle of nowhere and he's just said something kind of personal and now there's a silence that needs to be filled by something reassuring from _me,_ and the trees are dripping and still it is silent and _damn it I have no idea what to say._

It occurs to me that this is really pathetic. I held my own in two wars against this guy, but now I need to speak one reassuring heartfelt sentence and I stand here with my mouth hanging open like some kind of junior high school dork. A burst of laughter escapes me, and after I've recovered I look back to England to explain to him the irony of it all.

He's gone.

I panic, realizing too late that from his point of view it would've seemed like I was laughing at his confession.

"England?" I take off running back the way we came. "England, it's not what you think!"

It's too late, I know, but somehow I cling to the hope that maybe he'll come back and hear me out. He doesn't, of course. Since when does England _ever_ bother listening to me?

I trudge back to the cottage and try the front door. Locked. Naturally. I could probably break in through a window somewhere, but given the circumstances I think that would hardly improve our relationship. Instead I wrap my bomber jacket tightly around me and prepare for a long, cold night.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **Quick little catch-up chapter. I wanted to sum up the 20s and 30s in like a paragraph, but really, there's too much history there. I still didn't do them justice even with a full chapter,but I _really_ want to get America into World War II as quickly as possible.

Joanina1992: Thank you! ^^ I'm glad America turned out sufficiently doofus-like; I'm much more of an England person so it can be tricky at times. He's a twit, but that's what makes him so loveable C:

I wanted to individually thank those who have reviewed multiple times, but then I realised that just about everyone has commented at least twice, so... thank you all for that. The progression of your reactions helps me gauge the flow of the story in a way that I can't by myself, since I kind of know what's going to happen and stuff.

Please keep in mind, especially with the first remark America makes about Hitler, that I am writing from the American perspective of that time period. Before the war, Hitler was just another world leader, and even after the war started no one knew the full scope of the Holocaust until the Allies invaded Germany. _Please _try to look at it in that historical context. I am in no way endorsing Nazis.

And now, since the author's note is about as long as the story itself, Sir Serendipity not-so-proudly presents: the 1920s-30s and the beginning of the Second World War.

* * *

I didn't see England for years after that. Oh, I'd scrawl him the occasional rambling letter about how things were going over here or how much I missed alcohol or how I maybe kind of sort of wanted to see him since we're allies now and all, but all I ever got as a response was a polite telegram from Baldwin or MacDonald telling me that England was _frightfully _busy these days and would write back as soon as he found the time. I knew that was bullshit. With all this economic prosperity, I'd be damned if England didn't spend the entire time getting plastered in some London nightclub. When times are tough, he drinks. When things are going well, he drinks in fancier clothes. That's just the way my England works.

Then the stock market crashed, and I had more important things to worry about- like, you know, surviving. All through those awful dusty years, England's words from over a century ago haunted me: _You_ _can't_ _pull_ _yourself_ _up_. I was terrified that I had failed— failed my people, failed my values, failed myself.

But neither economic nor emotional depressions last, and my situation improved through a rather unexpected means. At first, the Second World War was the best thing that ever happened to me. Not only did I make a killing by selling arms to everyone and their mother, but England even acknowledged my existence by sending me a telegram to let me know when he declared war, with a strong hint that, being his ally, I should follow suit. I replied by pretty much telling him to have fun and tell me all about it when he gets back.

To be fair, I did seriously consider going to war. Politics aside, I knew what had brought us together last time was a common enemy to fight instead of each other, and a similar situation could do the same thing again. But politically, I didn't want to get involved in a mess like that again, and to be honest Hitler didn't seem like such a bad guy at the time. I mean, you got to have respect for someone who can defy all of Europe like that. Besides, he was half the market for my war supplies.

Then the letters came pouring in.

First it was France, of course. He sent me reams of frilly stationery filled with that loopy handwriting of his, begging me to go save him from the big bad Germany. As months turned into years, all papery-feeling packages from France went straight into the trash because I simply didn't have the time or patience to wade through them. They became a rather inconvenient fact of life.

That is, until 1940, when they came to an abrupt end.

Months passed and I still didn't receive a single scrap of paper from France, which disturbed me enough that I actually bothered to skim the last one he sent.

_Maginot Line... through Belgium... defenses overwhelmed... closing on Paris..._

I skipped to the last page.

_Too late, Amerique._

He didn't bother signing his name.

I threw his letter across my living room, not caring that the dozens of loose pages separated and flew every which way. Not only were Belgium and France my allies, but they had been all that stood between the Axis and England. God knows what Hitler and Mussolini planned to do with him now that his only reliable European allies had become _Lebensraum._

We soon found out.

England's letters started coming in next, written in uncharacteristically messy cursive on cheap brown paper. He didn't lower himself to begging; no, he's much too proud for that. Instead he stated simple facts and figures, as if he were just writing to inform me as to how the war was going, but his meaning was clear. Hundreds of civilians being killed in the Blitz. Half of London in ruins. Homelessness and poverty. Food stamps. Rationing. Millions of men fighting for their country and being slaughtered like animals on the battlefield. England was holding his own, yes, but I doubted even the mighty British Empire could hold out forever against the war machine that the Axis had collectively become. Even so, there was nothing I could do.

Then finally the war got personal. A direct unprovoked attack, although obviously far from desirable, was exactly what I needed to get into the action at last. Without even stopping to lick my wounds, I headed off to Britain to be a hero and save the day.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **Winston Churchill. That is all.

* * *

_December_ _1941_.

"Welcome to the United Kingdom, America." England smiles— if one could really call it a smile— and I swear the temperature in the hangar drops. I gulp down my nervousness and nod cordially.

"Thank you." I turn to the bulldog of a man who stands beside him. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. We've heard a lot about you in the States."

"The pleasure's all mine." The half-American Prime Minister grins around his cigar. At least, I think it's a grin. His jowls rise half an inch or so, anyway. "Arthur here mentions you quite a bit."

The look on England's face at being addressed by his human name on top of being called out on talking about me is priceless. I've never seen anyone pull off shock, scandalization, and a scowl simultaneously before.

"Well, _Winnie_," he snaps, turning to exit the hangar, "I believe you have more important things to do than mock your country, such as joining me in the conference room in half an hour to brief the United States on his first mission." With that, he storms out into the hallway, the clomping of his boots echoing off the walls like thunderclaps.

Churchill sighs out smoke, amusement lingering in his eyes. "He hasn't been quite the same since you declared war. Edgy, tense. Even more so than usual, that is." He looks me over appraisingly for a moment before dragging one last puff out of his cigar, tossing it to the concrete floor and grinding it out with his heel. "Whatever it is, do us all a favor and sort it out soon." He turns to go but doesn't start walking, throwing a hand into the air instead and wagging his index finger back and forth. "Room 104, half an hour. The porters will take care of your luggage." Only then does he stride off after England.

I walk into that meeting room half an hour later determined to follow his advice. I've kept my poker face on for years now; it's time to play my cards at last.

England, Churchill, the War Minister, a battered France who had been smuggled into Britain by the French Underground, and an assortment of British generals go over the current state of the war, including their most recent intelligence reports on Axis movements and the potential strategies they've devised to counter said movements. I try my best to pay attention, but for some reason I can't help staring at the bags under England's eyes, and his uniform that seems rather more loose than I remember, and the way his shoulders jut out a little too bonily from under his epaulettes, and the slight limp he now walks with, and—

"America!" England's glaring at me, his face flushed, and France is chuckling in the way that signifies that something dirty is going on in that oh-so-French brain of his. "_Please_stop staring and listen! And as for you, wine bastard, you can get that small mind of yours out of the gutter, if that's even possible. As I was saying, Hitler has launched a new offensive..."

The war dissolves after that, the same way the First World War did. The routine of meeting followed by mission followed by meeting followed by mission seems to nullify the very concept of time. Has it been weeks? Months? Years? It doesn't matter. Not even the war as a whole matters. Are we winning? Losing? Gaining ground or losing it? Who's retreating, us or them? Am I killing to live or living to kill? I don't care. Meeting, mission. Meeting, mission. Meeting... mission...

I can't take it anymore.

I open my eyes and stare at the wooden rafters above me. I have no idea what the date is or where I am; I can barely remember my own name. What's happened to me? What have I been doing?

Why am I wasting my time when there's only one thing I really care about?

I turn my head to look over at the vague form of England in the bed next to mine, the blankets covering him rising and falling with his breathing. I'd wanted to make him suffer a bit, to make him realize how torturous it was for me to hear his stupid little spiel about using me for the sake of the Empire when I knew that he was lying. Why would he have invited me over for the sole purpose of ruining all his plans to solidify our alliance? No, he'd wanted something to happen that day, something that would change our relationship, but he didn't have the courage to tell me the truth. Then I dreamed up some plan to make him feel sorry... it all seems so useless, now, here in the dark in God-knows-where, alone with him.

Damn it, we'll never get anywhere with all these plots and ulterior motives and mind games. It's not our war-torn history or the social restrictions imposed on us or our own insecurities that are important. It's so much simpler than all that. It's just us.

I throw back my thin blanket and swing my feet over the edge of the wireframe bed. He's right there. Right now, there are no seas to cross, no wars to fight, no societal expectations to weigh down on us, no delicate political matters to circumvent. Right here, right now, there's nothing between us but a few feet of air.

I walk over, turning up the oil lamp to a soft glow as I pass it, and kneel on the floor by his bed, folding my arms and leaning on the mattress. England is turned toward me, but his face is buried in his blanket and all I can see of him is a mass of tousled blonde hair. Smiling, I carefully pull the blanket aside a little and lean in to whisper in his ear, "England, are you awake?"

He lifts his head and opens his eyes, the lamplight dancing gold on green. After taking a moment to wake up he stares evenly at me, silent. Even so, I know what he's saying. He's daring me to take what he offered on that night in the bunker years ago. He took the first step; now it's my turn.

Those eyes, though, make me hesitate. I can see the danger lurking behind that cold green glass. Those eyes belong to the man who ordered me to go home and behave like a good little colony at my first world meeting; who mocked my very identity as an independent nation; who shot me in cold blood; who used me and manipulated me at every turn...

...and who is now the man I love.

_Go figure,_ I think, and press my lips against his.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N** Well, here you go. I had this finished weeks ago but something was off about it. It still is, and it bothers me to no end. I think it may be that I wanted this chapter to be a bit more emotionally complex, but after sticking with me all through WTTW and six chapters of this mess, I also think my dear readers deserve a bit of fluff at long last. They say England gets romantic when he's tired, so I took full advantage of that. I couldn't resist introducing the next conflict, though— yes, you read me aright! I'm starting to plan out the next installment. That said, it'll be a while before I actually put it up here because, as you may or may not have noticed, I'm on a Star Wars run. Don't even ask, because I honestly don't know. XD Once I get all this Anakin fanboying out of my system I promise I'll come back to Hetalia. Until then... -cue the shameless plug- I'll be focusing on "From Behind the Mask" and another multi-chaptered story that has yet to be debuted but will probably be entitled "Slave," if you want to check those out! X)

Anyhoo... -throws piles of fluff-

* * *

There's no need for words. For us, words only serve to complicate matters. We're no good at saying what we feel, but fortunately we're both impulsive enough to _do_what we feel; and finally, for the first time in our lives, we understand each other perfectly. No schemes, no lies, no misunderstandings, no manipulation— just love confessed a thousand different ways, spoken wordlessly with lips and hands and tongues and teeth.

I don't know whether I climbed on or he pulled me up but somehow I end up on the bed as well, so tangled up in England that not even I can tell where one of us ends and the other begins. He fills my every sense and my mind is emptied of everything but him: the taste of tea; the scent of the English countryside tinged with factory smoke, sea salt and faint accents of India; the rhythmic throbbing of the Thames and the Severn as they course through his arteries; the rustling of sheets and the soft, breathless moans that he sighs into my mouth; the very fibers of his being that intertwine with my own and, together, are woven into something that's somehow more real, more _alive_than either of us was before.

I have his shirt halfway off before I realize what I'm doing and break our messy, extended kiss-of-sorts at long last. I was driven by the unconscious desire to remove all the remaining obstacles between us until there's nothing holding us back but our own skin, not by any kind of lust— that is, until England shoots me a dark-eyed "Why the hell did you stop?" look that, coupled with a nice view of his chest, is the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Then we both notice that we're in a position so strange that it shouldn't be humanly possible and burst into laughter simultaneously.

I can't even remember the last time I saw England laugh, so I make sure to enjoy the sight while it lasts as we sort out whose limbs are whose. The bedclothes evidently got in our way at some point and are now missing, so I wrap my arms around him and we curl up together in a rather more comfortable position than our previous one, making do with body heat.

We lie there silent and unmoving, just breathing each other in now that our initial passionate frenzy is over. I don't know how long we stay like that, but it's long enough that the stillness stops being comfortable and turns into the kind of silence that wants to be broken. I inhale in preparation to speak but England closes his eyes and presses two fingers to my lips, a crease appearing between those enormous eyebrows of his.

"America," he says slowly and deliberately, his voice soft with an undertone of exasperation. "You are about to ruin this moment for me by blurting out something mindbogglingly stupid. I implore you to consider rewording whatever you want to say in such a way that will not make me want to immediately terminate your existence. If you find yourself unable to do so, then I must ask you to keep your mouth shut for once in your bloody life."

I'd be pissed off if he weren't so right.

I sigh, scrap what was originally on my mind, and instead say what I know needs to be said out loud, even though I'm sure he already understands.

"About that time... right after the Great War... when you told me, well, you know..."

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of England's mouth and he moves his fingers from my lips to caress my cheek. "Go on."

"It was a misunderstanding, and I'm sorry."

He opens his eyes, his smile widening. "And?"

"And I love you," I whisper as he moves his hand back to run through my hair and draw me into another kiss.

It's hard to really think much at all with England's tongue down my throat, but the thought does cross my mind that it's kind of unfair that I'm the only one who apologized. He may present himself as a mature gentleman, but most of the time he's considerably more childish than I am. Honestly, though, I'd give up a thousand apologies if he would just— and that's about as far as that particular train of thought gets before it's inevitably overwhelmed by _Holy cannoli, this man knows how to kiss._

We separate when it feels natural to do so; time has no hold on us anymore.

"So England," I say, trying to sound casual, "I believe you owe me three little words."

He looks at me with such pain written all over his features that I immediately regret mentioning it. "You know perfectly well I can't—"

I silence him with a quick peck on the lips. "Yes, I know. I thought maybe now it would be different, but that's okay. Forget I said anything."

Even when I was his colony, England had never told me he loved me. He never explained why. I just came to accept it as a fact of life that when I tugged at his breeches and told him, "I love you, big brother," he would smile uncomfortably, nod, and walk away without responding. Later, during the Revolution, I used his mysterious inability to say those simple words as fuel for my anger, convincing myself to believe the lie that he never really cared about me at all. Even then, though, I knew he did; he just didn't express it in the most conventional way. The nearest he ever came was that confession that he didn't hate me, which of course I failed to appreciate at the time. Somehow I was hoping that now, since he came so close last time and since things are different between us, he'd be able to finally say what I'd always wanted to hear from him, but, well, evidently not.

"You know what I will say, though?" He looks up at me with an all-too-familiar smug expression and leans in closer to me, lowering his voice in both pitch and volume. "Remember your first world conference?"

"Of course." I start to become vaguely worried as to what he's getting at, especially when his tone becomes deeper and softer still.

"And you got upset when I told you you'd always be mine?"

"Yeah."

He's now so close to me that his lips brush against mine when he speaks. "I was right."

I smile, making use of the opportunity to banter. "And what if I declare independence?"

To my relief he takes it in good spirit, quirking an eyebrow haughtily as he gives me some space again. "I simply won't allow you."

"You'd deny an American his right to freedom? Sounds risky, man."

"It is, but we'll both make it, I assure you." England gets kind of misty-eyed and expressive, like when he's reading William Blake or quoting _Hamlet_. It's adorable, really, but he'd kill me if I ever told him that. "This time there shall be no independence. No wars between us, no idiotic diplomats to augment our miscommunications, nothing to get in our way—only us. This time, love," he continues, wrapping his arms around my neck, "this time, you really are mine forever."

"You know, that's so exactly what I was thinking earlier that it's kind of freaking me out."

England rolls his eyes but his smile never fades.

"Shut up and stop spoiling the mood."


End file.
